


The Tale of the Traitorous Blond's Surrender to his King

by versions91



Series: Love and Fidelity of the Feline Kind [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: A Liiiiittle Angst, Cat POV, Happy Ending, Humour, M/M, Man vs Cat, Post-SPECTRE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versions91/pseuds/versions91
Summary: As told by Mikhail the Exalted, Grand Prince of Archangel.(Or: Q's cats are feudal lords, and they know what Bond did. Bond comes back to ambush.)





	The Tale of the Traitorous Blond's Surrender to his King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BoredPsychopath_JC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredPsychopath_JC/gifts).



My liege is in need of comfort. He would not have removed us from our fiefs, unless we required his attention–I have yet to forgive him for the cone!–or he our company. My spirits being perfectly well, and the Duke enjoying a nap at present, it must be my liege’s sorrow I sense. 

Leap I from my station bed to attend to His Majesty, who is examining a thin, rectangular card covered in blue dye. Over his shoulder I read (you think I illiterate? How dare you!) its flip side, and there it is: the damned Blond’s name!

Soft clouds shroud his visage. He lifts the corners of his mouth halfway. Is he half-happy whilst sad? How he feels such way is beyond me. 

Between His Majesty’s line of sight and the hated reminder of the Blond’s betrayal, I hesitate not to interpose myself. “I shall never leave your Highness, and the treacherous Blond shall pay his due!” 

He receives my loyalty with approval, and brushes my coat tenderly.

The Blond is larger in statute, granted, but men are so… _clumsy_ in combat. I straighten myself, take leave, and wait. The time will come.  


  


* * *

  


Two hundred and six nights have passed since the Blond betrayed the King. I tally them not on the strength of my hatred, but on my liege’s loss of spirit. 

For some December nights, His Majesty had been subdued. In shallow dreams he lay, and woke before birdsong. Observing so, we engaged him in playful chase, rousing his blood to balance the melancholic humour. We had thought it worked, and took cheer on his recovery. 

One evening, the wall gate closed hesitantly behind His Majesty, and he called. His fair head drooped like a wilted rose, and his voice was hollowed, sapped of his usual energy. In his movement was a dullness alien to his royalty, which so shocked me, I watched without approach.

“Not you, too.”

Nay! I sprinted from my castle and pounced onto his lap, losing not a second to remedy his hurt. I reached for him. He held me close, with my arms over his shoulder. Then came feeble words, 

“He’d gone, of course.”

 _He_ , he must be the Blond. Had he died in battle? Yet my liege pronounced him not dead, but gone. My liege did not grieve, but he let out a mirthless laugh with a rawness to its sound. The truth then dawned upon me: the Blond had committed a most heinous crime.

I climbed onto my liege’s shoulder. The Duke lay beside him. My liege stroked the Duke’s grey fur, running His Majesty’s hand through the plush coat. On my perch, I too became lost in thought, murderous thought.  


  


* * *

  


The strategy is so simple, even the Duke understood it. A little flattery of his looks was enough to coax agreement. In unprecedented fashion, we forged a military alliance.

  


* * *

  


As foreseen, the Blond reappears at the station. I see his blue human eyes emerging from between the double gates.

I see the time has come. 

How this now-alien has breached many guarded doors I do not yet know. This is proof of why my liege’s safety should never be entrusted to mankind. No matter. The Blond shall count his stars unlucky. Darkness falls entirely to my advantage, and the stage for his demise is set.

The Duke too sees the traitor, and duly follows the plan. 

Step one: distract. 

The Duke plays the bait, his affable disposition a weapon deployed. He announces his presence by my liege’s desk. Round copper eyes gleaming, he rolls onto his back to offer peace. I believe this is what men deem “playing cute.” (The Duke is portly, not “cute.” But I digress.) 

After a second’s thought, the Blond closes in and crouches down before the Duke, one knee on the ground. There’s nothing reliable about men, except they are reliably predictable. I lie still.

Step two: attack. 

The moment the Blond busies his hands with grooming the Duke (how gullible), I race, and with strategic use of bookstacks, an iron cupboard and a tall shelf—you see, I have conducted due reconnaissance and plotted the very trajectory taken—latch onto the Blond's shoulder from behind. No sooner does he feel my weight than my claws. This! is! the! price! of! be! tray! al! With each strike I teach him this lesson. He spins and turns, trying to catch me. He dodges up and down, trying to lose me. Oh, it is futile. He is defenceless against my supreme sense of balance and agility, his armour wearing thin. I tear him apart, cloth and flesh. Is this one of the finest fighters of men? How disappointing. I would finish his sorry life, aiming at his neck– 

The gates! My ears swivel to hear a steady, mechanic hum, an omen for interruption. “What now?” The Duke hisses. I must think on my paws! 

There is no time to think. The Blond flings his arm and I, caught in woeful distraction, am hurled into the air, flying...

Then falls a loud thump.

  


* * *

  


’Tis, of course, the Blond’s hind landing on concrete. I am Grand Prince of Archangel, after all. Never would I land with such lack of grace.

Steadied on a nearby shelf, I turn to find my liege towering by the gates, pointing a black, palm-sized instrument to the man down.

“D—don’t move.”

“Q.” The Blond tilts his head, huffs, and, defying royal decree, pushes himself to stand. (Insolence!)

“Bond?" 

Light filled the room, blurring my sight. Their words, however, ring clear in damp air. 

“Q, that’s a taser.” 

“A customised taser with the effective range doubled.” His Majesty retorts, then lowers his arms. “What are you doing here?” 

His tone is cool, yet not cruel. The Blond strides towards His Majesty (audacious!), pulls his shirt sleeves, and winces. 

“Your cats? What’s the matter with them?”

“They, oh.” 

My liege finally sees my work, the crosshatches of glory. I pray he be pleased, as his lips press together and curve with a secret. “They are rarely aggressive. What did you do?"

The Blond stands gaping, dumbstruck like the fool he is. 

In their exchange of looks, there is unmistakable fondness in His Majesty’s gentle lines. One should find that my liege is most forgiving, his clemency readily given once asked. Should the Blond now fall to his knee, His Majesty no doubt would dole out pity like bread to the hungry. I am ready to raise caution: beware of the shameless, abuser of your mercy! My liege seems to hear my plea, though it be unvoiced.

“Never mind.” His Majesty lowers his gaze and walks past the Blond. “What do you want, Bond?”

“How about a welcome?” 

His Majesty, with his crown held high, stops in front of his desk and turns.

“Welcome back. Unfortunately, MI6 has no use of retired agents loitering around. That’s what retirement means.” 

Over a weighted pause, his words harden and crystallise into ice.

“Leave the way you came? I believe a review of the security protocol you’ve just hacked is overdue.” 

With mere words, my liege has instilled fear and distance in many a man. But the Blond, I must concede, is unlike many men. Brazenly he comes forward, stopping just one step before my liege. He drops his voice.

“I didn’t come back for MI6." 

"Then let me ask again: why are you here? You didn't come here at two thirty for a nice chat, did you?”

Only then, his eyes, the most precious stones of olive in constant brilliance, meet tumultuous, tempestuous waters.

It’s a moment beyond our understanding. Silence for silence, they search for wordless meaning in each other. Between men there is an abyss, and my liege is waiting for the Blond to cross it. Eventually, the Blond answers. 

“No, not really. Shouldn’t I be introduced to your cats, at least?”

Men’s inestimable shamelessness robs me of speech.

Curiously, after brief contemplation, my liege summons our attendance. I have already met the Blond in combat; introductions are redundant. I bend to His Majesty’s will nonetheless, but spare not another look at the blue-eyed ogre.

“You must be the King.” And the Blond dares to smile! My liege casts him a chiding glare. It’s time for an ultimatum, but His Majesty is stopped short of it.

“You asked me what I want. I’m here, Q. Could I... be here?”

There’s something broken, yet resolute, in the Blond’s voice. It behooves me to reconsider my staunch antagonism. The Duke, ever the soft-hearted sympathiser, goes rubbing against the Blond! I shake my head and look up. The hands that feed me, they close into fists and open again. His Majesty blinks hard, several times, his brows scrunched into a frown.

My liege’s struggle brings me to this observation: men don’t really understand each other. Words scratch the surface of what they desire to convey, what they hold inside their chests. Their botched expression cannot bridge the abyss. It’s imperfect, impossible. 

And so, with faith, they trapeze. One leaps, against the odds of distance misjudged, of strength mistrusted, with the hope that their hands will lock in safe grip, and they will fly, not fall.

I don't approve of these human risks, but this matter lies solely within His Majesty’s discretion. Though his command be like imperious winters, I know, buried in snow, a hope that longs to hope. And so my gentle liege answers. 

“Well then, make yourself home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks [amarulasmile](http://amarulasmile.tumblr.com/) and [ciao-agnes](http://ciao-agnes.tumblr.com/) for the beta! All mistakes remain mine.
> 
> Q's choice of weapon is informed by [this post](http://castillon02.tumblr.com/post/141532447467/as-someone-who-knows-fuck-all-about-guns).
> 
> I wanted to use the word fiefdom (god knows why), hence the cats are, or think they are, feudal lords. I didn't write this to explore the period, so I made no effort to period-proof the language. Trapezes are also not invented until much later. I have no excuse. - hides- (edit: I put feudalism and Renaissance in the same period, i.e. I really don't know history. -goes into hiding again-) 
> 
> This ficlet grew from a double drabble [ here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/post/145045930166/grand-prince-of-archangel). I would kick Bond out of Q's lab, but Jody is kind. This piece, in extended form, continues to be a gift to her.
> 
> Kudos and comments mean everything. And I'm open to questions about Q's cats! Find me on Tumblr [here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/). x


End file.
